28th October

Even thought the first Czechoslovak Republic was established by the ‘rotten bourgeois capitalists’, the date of its foundation, 28^th October was a national holiday that was duly celebrated during communism. After all, bourgeois or not, it was a liberation from Hungarians for the Slovaks, and from the Germans for brothers Czechs. Although the latter were grumbled about for their ‘Pragocentrism’ (directing all things from Prague despite the federation we had on paper) in the pubs, they were not grumbled about officially. That is not done in a socialist federative republic. After the fall of communism, the 28^th October was a day of battling out the nationalist sentiments. We, the so-called ‘Czechoslovakists’ (and believe me, that ain’t a compliment in Slovakia) would gather in front of the Slovak national museum under the statue of a double-tailed lion, symbol of Czechoslovak Federation, today of the Czech Republic. The ‘Hey-Slovaks’ (Slovak nationalists who got their name from a song made popular during the national revival movement that goes “Hey, Slovaks, our Slovak language is still alive, alive is the Slovak nation, it will live forever…etc.”) would gather nearby and yell and sing louder, if not outright throw rocks.

Anyhow, fast forward fifteen or so years, Czechoslovakia split, Slovak nationalists and populists got what they wanted, an independent state. One would think it would be easier to claim that important part of the historical heritage that Czechoslovakia was; rampant nationalism snoring away after a hefty meal of secession. I’d have thought so, too. But two days ago, on the Day of the Republic, other than a one or two minute long shot in the TV there was nada. No mention in any main newspaper, not a word. Who cares that Czechoslovakia was the only democratic state in Central Europe at the time. Who cares that it dragged Slovakia out of poverty and backwardness and pulled it up among the most developed countries of the period between the two world wars. Czechs do have the 28^th as their national holiday. Heck, it was their republic, we mutter. We don’t recognize it. But 1^st September, when the Slovak Parliament passed the Constitution that broke Czechoslovakia apart, that we’ll celebrate. 6^th of January, the day when the three Kings arrived to give Jesus their presents (and Epiphany or whatnot), yes that’s national holiday. Easter, Christmas, and 15 September – Virgin Mary Day, all national holidays. Funniest is the Cyril and Metodius day – Byzantine emissaries who apparently brought Christianity to these lands (little did they know…). Oh forget the Scottish and Irish missionaries that were here long before and after them, forget the fact their impact was at best limited at the time, that they were kicked out because the ruler Svatopluk chose Rome over Constantinople… They are the founders of the first Slovak statehood somehow, although the Great Moravian Empire was not really Slovak and not really a statehood either. And had little to do with the two of them.

Neither the Catholics’ nor the national myth-makers’ holidays would upset me, if only 28^th October remained among the national holidays after the split in 1993. It sure as hell is my own national holiday. I don’t like to be deprived of it by an ignorant government, nor by ignorance of my fellow citizens. I was born in Czechoslovakia and Masaryk was my first President, too. There. Whew, I feel much better already.

Girl Power

People can get used to anything. Even to a noose around their neck, as we clever Slovaks say. The boys at the the boxing club now mostly leave me be as I'm becoming a regular. We're certainly expanding women ranks at the club. There's five of us now. Me, my colleague and convert, whom I talked into joining, Magda from Poland, then a chubby young girl who hangs out mostly at the bar in the club, and two new additions: a fierce blonde roller-blader with a half shaved head with some funky patterns colored on it, and a fragile older woman in a soft grey sweatsuit that looks like she lost her way to the yoga studio.
Magda came with me three times. Boys are happy. Magda is a young pretty firecracker, she chatters with the boys and boys like to be chattered with. I kept to myself before, did my stuff and left, now I hang at the club more. It's better for the boys' workout too. When one or more of us watch, they go all out at the heavy bags or in the ring, until the trainer rips them apart. We came up with code names for the boxers, since we don't know their real ones. "My boyfriend" (Bosniak that wanted to "party with me") now flirts shamelessly with Magda, sends her air kisses and all. "Elephant boy" (fat kid who claims to be 14) picks on us constantly. Quite annoying little brat, if you ask me. "You are the most funny," he tells me amidst the huffing and puffing, when we try out combinations en masse. That throws me off balance somewhat, but I'm learning to phase him out. "Hop like a bunny," he tells Magda when she asks what the trainer said to do. Neither of us understands German well (me not at all, to be honest), so we keep getting lost in instructions. Magda shoots him a glare that could kill, but hop like a bunny we do. #18 (one of the older boxers who trains in the ring and wears a sweatshirt with #18 on it) and Mr. Serious watch us mess up all the steps and sweat our butts off at rope jumping from the side. One has to get used to the side audience. Frau Klaudia is a tough trainer - no breaks between rope jumping, we go 15 minutes straight. Same at the end of the workout, except every time she whistles, we have to do push ups, ab crunches, jumps or somethin along the line until she whistles again. Then we jump more. Then we sprint-jump. She's a sadist.
I'm still in the giddy stage. I get excited when I get a combination right, practicing my three and four-combinations and getting up to speed in my office, in the kitchen, in my head. I got my new gloves last week. Tried them on in the office. Naturally, the assistant from the Institute walked in to borrow a chair at that precise moment. Didn't even have time to pull them off. Ever tried to hide boxing gloves on your hands under your desk while maintaining a polite conversation? That ain't easy. Then the history researcher walked in on me air-punching in the little kitchenette while I was waiting for the water to boil. Hard to explain to someone you barely know... But that's part of the business. Tomorrow we have the main trainer, Johann, again, coming back with our star, our stallion, our trophy-winner Marcos, who is just 15, but wins all the championships in this part of the world. I hope all the wimmins come again, so that I can do my thigh crunches on the machines relatively unnoticed. The thigh cruncher faces the bar. It's somewhat disturbing to open and close one's legs while three guys watch, cigarettes hanging out of their mouths.

Widespread lunatic

I hate visors. They look silly and they serve no reasonable purpose. They don't even cover the top of your head and sunglasses are always cooler and less cumbersome to shade your eyes from sun than visors. In fact, I wore a visor one and only time in my life.
I had a new visor and I had to wear it. Got it from Dave, the base guitarist of the Widespread Panic. My friend Kris, she's tight with a bunch of great bands from Atlanta. Years of bartendering down there and dating some of them gets you on the inside. So when the Panic comes, we get invitation backstage. WP played in the Orpheum, we got to hang on the side of the stage. After the show we ran with the band through the belly of the building into an unmarked white van. Another van with the band logo and all went the opposite direction to confuse the crowds of stoned fans. Coolness squared. We drank with Dave in their hotel bar until wee hours of the morning. For free. Some of the fans found us and kept buying the band drinks all night. Including me and Kris. Famous for a night. So, still being somewhat high from the concert, I adorned my head with a visor that Dave gave me once. I thought I'd wear it more often, after all, I thought that it will be good for biking. And I planned to do a whole lot of biking, for I had a month off, going back home to Slovakia.
Getting back home, I open the paper, wondering where I should venture this Sunday. There's a big article about old mills on a branch of Danube. Should be a picturesque ride through the fields, some dirt roads, nice. Granted I have to cross half of the town and some villages, but it will be worth it. It's a scorching hot day, I set out in tank top and bike shorts, crowned with my new Panic visor. It won't protect top of my head and I know it's silly of me, but I'm stubborn. Visor's new, it has to come with. I set out, steppin on the pedals light and fast. Gorgeous day. I whizz by a group of men. One whistles, another yells something after me. They laugh. Assholes. That's Eastern Europe for you. On the way through Podunajské Biskupice I pass a beer garden. That's where guys go to "church" on Sundays. Another group of men in their overalls. "Take me, take me!" one hollers. "Hey, baby, I'd show you a thing or two..." yells another. Damn, I didn't know Slovakia was this backward, I think, rolling my eyes. Finally I turn left and hit the small country road. Just a few villages and I'm near the floodplain forests. On the weekends people work on their houses. Neighbors and family get together and work on a construction or repairs or something. I pass a few groups hard at work on my way. All heads turn, hollering continues. "I'm innocent as a spring flower!" exclaims a young worker leaning on a shovel next to a cement mixer. Now that's beginning to be really weird. Either I look extra hot today, which is highly unlikely, or I'm paranoid and I imagine everybody is watching me and talking at me, or something's up and I wasn't informed. Luckily I reach the forests and wind my way through the paths and herds of mosquitos. I am quite glad to reach the water mill, my brain is half cooked by now. There's a wooden shack with a snack bar. I'm delighted to find out they have Kofola on tap. Kofola is a Slovak version of Coca-cola, except less sweet, more lemony, and fresh from the draught. Naturally superior to Coca-cola, as it's been around when I was growing up, and Coca-cola was not. Hefty woman behind the bar eyes me up and down and barely speaks to me. She is not trying to hide her dislike of me one bit. I don't care, everybody's bloody strange today, I refuse to take notice.
I walk my bike to the river, sit down in the shade, stretch on the grass. Ahhhh, it's beautiful here. My eyes rest on tops of the trees, fluffy clouds scattered on a turquouise sky, on boats tied to the bank, on my visor. 'Panic', it says. I'm about to continue the visual tour of the surroundings, when about ten thousand bells and alarms and lights go off inside my head. I read it again. "Panic". This time I read it in Slovak - and I'm truly 'panic'-stricken. [Pun-eetz], as one would pronouce it, means 'virgin' in my beautiful mother tongue. More than that, it describes a male virgin ('panna' being the female form). Damn! I am a walking personal advertisement, looking for an untouched male at that! "Take me," and "I'm innocent as a spring flower" suddenly make a lot more sense. As do grins and whistling and the old woman's disdain for me. I hide the damn visor in my shirt pocket. I shall never be seen with it in this part of the world again!
I drag myself home, the ride is endless. It must be well over 35 °C and the sun is baking right on my uncovered head. I run out of water third way into the ride. When I reach home, visor flies into a closet, as soon as I'm done downing gallons of water. I have a massive headache from a sunstroke. Serves me right, being so giddy about a stupid visor, just because a base player from a famous band gave it to me... Lesson in humility. Thou shalt not feel superior because of a damn visor!

ethno jazz

Mihaly Dresch quartet

I forgot how I love concerts. I avoid going, because there are people there (shocking, truly shocking), it's loud and energy draining, one has to get there, which requires dressing up and makeup.... I also forgot how I love saxophone. I even wanted to play sax when I was fifteen, until I found out how much they cost...
Well, last night I remembered both. Mihaly Dresch, the Hungarian John Coltrane, played up a storm at Porgy & Bess, a jazz club in Vienna. It was truly a complete sensual and emotional experience.
His saxophone had a beatiful velvety, sometimes almost hoarse 'shellack' to its sound. The deepest tones make your feet melt and become one with the earth underneath. The low tones resonate in your underbelly and spread warmth throughout. The alt wraps around your heart and the high pitched notes run through your hair like lover's fingers. Truly amazing.
The Dresch quartet mixes traditional Hungarian tunes - nostalgic ballads that Hungarian officers used to shoot themselves to in the pubs when a woman left them (they are known for this, it's part of the culture. Szomoru Vasarnap, or Sad Sunday is among such ballads), through the pesky csardas that makes you want to jump out of your seat and twirl around with the nearest Hungarian - with jazz. The fusion is effortless. Dresch picked up a solid hand carved Transylvanian flute with a husky, abrasive sound to it. You could almost hear the shepherds calling across the valleys hundreds of centuries ago. In half a second he picked up the melody with his sax, bringing you right home, with that lingering memory still on your tongue - reminding you who you are, where you come from and where is your place in this world.
Now I'm not a jazz connoisseur, so naturally I focus on other things. Dresch is, for example, a perfect Robert de Niro look-alike. The drummer looks like that Irish American actor, whathisname, Patrick MacSomething, and the cimbalist like that British actor that played in a movie about slave trade in Britain. Basist is a true copy of Kickycan, a member from an online forum I frequent. Now, we all know what faces drummers make. This one did not put the other drummers to shame. He flapped his jaw in the wind, stuck his tongue out, fiercely closed eyes. But do you know what faces a cimbalist makes? He hits the cimbalom strings with malettes as if his child's life depended on it, contorting his face not unlike a heavy weight weight lifter, other times looking surprised as a ten year old boy who just spilt a gallon of milk. On mother's brand new laptop. Unfortunately that's the extent of expertise I can offer, but if you have a chance, buy their latest CD, or even better, go see them. It's worth it. Here's a teaser, hope the link works:
http://video.tvnet.hu:8080/ramgen/c2/bmc/bmccd093/track03.rm